


The Road To Qohor

by ladylucilla



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, F/M, Homesickness, Missing Scene, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-14
Updated: 2011-09-14
Packaged: 2017-10-23 18:01:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/253238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladylucilla/pseuds/ladylucilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jorah has a fateful choice to make -- does he abandon his dreams of ever returning home, or does he betray his princess?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Road To Qohor

**Author's Note:**

> This is a ‘missing scene’ fic, set during ep 1x03, centered around the scene where Jorah learns that Dany is pregnant and suddenly decides to ride to Qohor.  
> Thank you to mrstater for beta-ing!

As the sun rose in the clear morning sky, the day began as any other, giving little hint that it would prove to be one of the most fateful in the life of Ser Jorah Mormont.

The khalasar of Khal Drogo was encamped until the morrow, allowing man and beast a welcome rest from their long slow trek across the plains of the Dothraki sea, on their way from Pentos to Vaes Dothrak. 

It was a rest from traveling perhaps, and living in the saddle, but there was always work to do to feed and clothe and house the population of the city on the move.  The servants and slaves tended to most of the menial labor, but Ser Jorah was not idle either, spending the morning with the two young Dothraki boys that had latched onto him when they had left Pentos, acting much like his squires back home, taking care of his belongings and armor, and grooming his horse. 

Today, however, Jorah tended the big chestnut stallion himself, brushing its coat until it shone, combing out the tangles from mane and tail, inspecting leg and hoof and teeth, making sure there was no sign of injury or illness.  The horse was still in fine condition after more than two months on the trail, but it was important that it was well treated, because there was still a long way to go before they reached the city of the horse lords.

By late afternoon, Jorah found himself with time on his hands.  Over the past several weeks he had ridden alongside Daenerys, Khal Drogo’s new bride, more and more frequently, but today he had not seen her at all.  She had not sent for him either, and her absence made him feel oddly disconcerted. 

He had grown very fond of keeping company with the young khaleesi, helping her adjust to her new life and learn the Dothraki language and customs.

If he was honest with himself, though, he was more than merely ‘fond‘ of her.  She was a stunning beauty, and his thoughts of her were often far less than chivalrous.

There seemed to be an unusual amount of activity in her tent today -- her handmaidens coming and going constantly -- details which he noticed because he passed near her tent more often than he had reason to, secretly hoping she would ask to see him.  But she did not, and so he did not speak to her, as it was not his place to make inquiries about her.

In contrast, Jorah was deliberately avoiding her brother Viserys.  No doubt Viserys was avoiding him too, judging by the black looks he got from the young prince now.  Ever since he had refused to carry out Viserys’ reckless command to kill the young warrior Rakharo a few weeks ago -- for the ‘crime’ of defending Daenerys against her brother’s shameful behavior -- Viserys had treated him with even more disdain that usual.

With any luck Viserys would not bother either of them today -- the prince had taken a couple of female slaves and an ample amount of wine to his tent, or at least that was the rumor in the camp.

The sun began to set without word from Daenerys. 

As Jorah reluctantly made his way to his tent for the night, he passed the fire where Drogo and his bloodriders were gathered.  The sight of the warlord brought an unexpected pang of jealousy to his heart, but he quickly pushed it down -- it was dangerous to feel such things in regards to the wife of the most fearsome warrior he had ever known.

It was not long before Rakharo came to visit him in the tent, and Jorah was glad of the company.  The young bloodrider was eager to learn more of the Common Tongue, the language of his khaleesi, and Jorah was pleased to be able to help.  But, as inevitably happened when two soldiers gathered together, their talk soon turned to combat and war.

"My father taught me how to fight. He taught me that speed defeats size," Rakharo said.

"I heard that your father was a famous warrior."

"He was bloodrider to Khal Bharbo.” 

Jorah nodded, impressed.  Bharbo had been Khal Drogo‘s father.  

“And your father, Jorah the Andal? He was a warrior also?"

“He still is.  A man of great honor," Jorah said proudly, then paused briefly before lowering his eyes and adding, "And I betrayed him."

Rakharo gave him a quizzical look, but Jorah was spared having to answer any questions when Irri, one of Daenerys’ handmaidens, arrived.

Jorah half-listened to the conversation between her and Rakharo about Daenerys wanting to eat something besides horse meat for dinner, leaning back in his chair and staring into the fire, preoccupied with thoughts of his own father.

In the last bit of news he had heard from home, Jeor Mormont was still alive and serving as the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch.  But that was half a year ago now.  Anything could have happened since; his father could have lost his life beyond the Wall, and Jorah would have no way of knowing it.  Time was running out if he ever hoped to stand before his father again.

The long years of exile weighed heavily on him, and Jorah despaired of ever finding a way to go home and erase some of the stain of dishonor he had brought upon House Mormont.

Then Irri said something that turned his world around.

"The Khaleesi have baby inside her." 

Jorah stared, thunderstruck.

"It is true -- she does not bleed for two moons.  Her belly start to swell."

So this was why Daenerys’ handmaidens had been hovering around her so much today. 

For once in his life, the gods were listening and had answered his prayers.  _This_ was the way home!  Surely information such as this would show his loyalty to King Robert and lift the price on his head.

"I'll have the boys butcher a goat for her supper," Jorah said to Irri, his thoughts racing.  He had to leave now, tonight, before the khalasar broke camp in the morning and moved further inland.  Qohor was the closest city where he could find couriers to relay a message back to Magister Illyrio in Pentos, who would in turn pass the information on to Varys in King‘s Landing.

When Irri had gone, Jorah rose, picking up his sword and sheathing it in the scabbard belted to his waist, his pulse pounding.

 _*Home!*_ his heart sang.

All he had dreamed of for years was within his grasp at long last.

"I need to ride to Qohor." 

"We ride towards Vaes Dothrak," Rakharo said, puzzled at his sudden departure.

Jorah picked up his bedroll from the floor, heading outside.

"Don't worry -- I'll catch you.  The hoarde is easy to find."

He paused a few feet from the tent, then ducked back inside.  "I need to take care of some things before we go further inland.  And I'll try to find some food while I'm there that might be more pleasing to the Khaleesi."

Rakharo accepted the lie easily enough.  And why should he not?  Jorah had been welcome in Drogo’s khalasar for years, and had always had the freedom to come and go as he pleased.

First he found the boys guarding the goat herd and gave them instructions to take one of the flock for their khaleesi.  Then he headed out into the night to find his horse.  He gathered provisions for the long ride, as many water skins as he could carry and dried horse meat.

Once his chestnut stallion was saddled and readied for the journey, Jorah set out, threading his way back through the encamped khalasar, passing tents and cook fires, children playing and women preparing the evening meal, men tending to the horses and gathering together to talk around the campfires.  When he passed the bloodriders who guarded the rear of the column, he told them he would return in several days.

He rode away from the khalasar at a light canter, letting the horse have its head, but not pushing the creature too hard; it was a long way to Qohor, and the moon had not yet fully risen.  Watchful for enemies and predators, and for the crossroads that lay many miles ahead, he kept his hand near his sword hilt as he rode, filled with thoughts of home. 

And hope, the first he’d had in so very long.  He dared to allow himself to dream and plan what he would do and where he would go once he had been pardoned.

There was little question of where he would head first -- the Wall and Castle Black of the Night‘s Watch.  He would find his father and fall upon his knees and ask for his forgiveness. 

Maybe he would even take the Black himself.  He had shunned the idea when he had been branded a criminal, instead fleeing from Westeros with Lynesse rather than be forced into a life sentence on the Wall.  But if he had a choice to voluntarily serve in the Night‘s Watch, like his father before him, that did have some small appeal now.

If his father would have him. 

He had no illusions that seeing each other again would be any kind of happy reunion.  Most likely his father would refuse to speak to him, or possibly spit in his face.  Or even take a sword to him himself.   Slain by Longclaw -- sometimes Jorah thought that was what he deserved, to have his blood shed by the sword he had dishonored.

No doubt his father would ask what he had done to earn a pardon from King Robert -- and most likely scorn him for adding spying to his list of crimes.

If his father turned him out, would the rest of the family do likewise?  Most likely his father's sister Maege or his cousin Dacey would not relish the prospect of his return.  But would they even let him stay on Bear Island?  Or would his mere presence be too much disgrace?  Aunt Maege could be as hard and unforgiving as his father, but Dacey... Gods be good, she might have enough sympathy for him to let him stay on the island somewhere.

The lordship had been taken from him, but he hoped one day to regain it and make amends with those he loved.  Surely there would be future opportunities to show his valor and bravery, as he had at the siege of Pyke when he had earned his knighthood.

The moon rose in the night sky, bright and nearly full, providing some light as he rode.  The wind stirred the grasslands around him, giving the illusion of traveling along the waves of the ocean.  It was little wonder they called these lands the Dothraki sea.

He concentrated on the road and on the horse, enjoying the feeling of freedom, the wind in his hair, far more exhilarating than the snail's pace of the khalasar, the beat of the horse’s hooves on the hard ground a soothing rhythm.

He was not sure how much time had passed when the horse alerted him that something was amiss up ahead.  His mount pulled up suddenly, fighting against the bit, and then Jorah himself heard the commotion, the high-pitched yipping and squealing. 

Jackals.

In the moonlight he could make out only shadows ahead, but they were gathered around something, four or five of them, circling around their prey along the right side of the road.

Jorah guessed it was probably someone or something left behind by the passing khalasar, either dead or too sick to continue with the rest, left there to rot by the Dothraki who had no use for those who could not keep up.

Then he heard a human voice, the figure on the ground swinging something, trying in vain to chase off the jackals. 

Seven Hells, he was still alive!

Jorah drew his broadsword from its scabbard, shouting curses as he spurred the horse forward into a full gallop, bearing down on them.

The pack scattered as horse and rider neared, and Jorah’s sword sliced through the air in a deadly arc at the nearest beast.  It was not a killing blow -- the stallion shied away in the last moments -- catching the jackal on its flank as it tried to flee.  But it was enough to leave a serious wound, and the jackal screamed in pain, running off, followed by the rest of the pack as they turned on their own and followed him into the grasslands beyond the road. 

Jorah wheeled around, fighting to stay in the saddle as the frightened horse reared and nearly threw him.  When the sounds of the jackals grew too faint to be heard, he was able to calm the horse down enough to dismount.

Hanging on to the reins tightly for fear that the chestnut would run off without him, he hurried over to the figure huddled on the ground.

It was an old man, a slave by the look of him.  One arm was a bloody ruin where the beasts had gotten hold of him, and he was moaning, holding his arm, still clutching a long walking stick.   The wound was mortal, the flesh shredded and torn, his life's blood pulsing out with every heartbeat.  The man did not say anything, merely pointing at his foot.  It looked twisted and broken within the thin shoe, and Jorah guessed it had been run over by a cart, or, most likely, stepped on by a horse.

The man would have been unable to walk after that, and to the Dothraki, a crippled slave was useless, and had been left behind like so much refuse.  Maybe if he had been a younger man, or less sickly looking, someone might have found him a place in a cart until he healed.  But obviously they had not deemed him worthy of that, and so he had been left to die.

He had seen it often over the years he had spent with the Dothraki, but he had never quite gotten used to it.  He knew that this was what made the khalasars such a thing to be feared, that there were no weaklings within their ranks.  War was brutal and cruel, and the Dothraki were a warrior culture, but the callousness of it troubled him sometimes.

Jorah sheathed his sword and knelt down, but instead of fetching cloth from his saddle bag to make bandages, he drew his knife from his belt.

Holding the blade and extending the hilt towards the man, Jorah said, "To end it now."

Although the slave would surely die of his wounds, it would not be swift.  In the meantime, the jackals would be back, or if not them, one of the big cats or other scavengers that roamed the grasslands.  Jorah could not risk staying with him until he died -- he would not be able to hold off a pack of predators on his own, not even with a broadsword.  But neither could he ride on and leave the man to be eaten alive by the beasts.

All Jorah could offer the old man was the mercy of a quick death. 

The man paused before reaching for the knife, slowly curling his trembling fingers around the hilt, gratitude in his eyes as he looked at Jorah.

Jorah averted his eyes as the man brought the blade up to his neck.

There was a long silence, and Jorah looked back, watching as the man held the blade to his throat with a shaky hand.  Finally he lowered the knife, offering it back to Jorah.  "I cannot," he said.  "You... please."

Jorah closed his eyes, sighing.  It was one thing to kill a man in combat, but another entirely to help a man commit suicide.  But what other choice was there?

Jorah looked at him again, nodding in agreement.

He pushed the old man's walking stick deep into the ground, then tied the reins of his horse to it lest the beast run off on him -- the smell of blood in the air was already making it skittish.

Then Jorah knelt behind the old man.

"Take a moment to make your peace with the gods, if you wish," Jorah said.

"I have prayed....  They sent you," the old man said.

Jorah swallowed past the tightness in his throat.  He said a few prayers of his own, then raised the razor-sharp blade to the left side of old man's neck.  He held it just so, at just the right angle to bring the quickest death with the least pain.

His hand moved quickly, slicing open the main artery, and he held the old man as he twitched and shuddered, cradling his body as his life’s blood quickly drained out of him, and Jorah laid him down on the grass as he died.

He closed the old man's eyes when the beating of the heart ceased, then sat there for a few moments, composing himself.

He wiped off the knife and cleaned the blood from his hands and stood up, wondering what to do with the body.  It did not seem right to just leave it here, but even if he had the time, it was not possible to dig a grave deep enough that the scavengers would not dig up again after he had gone.

When Jorah dragged the corpse away from the road and into the grass, he had his first clear look at the man’s face, discovering that the slave was not so old a man after all.  Without the pain and terror marring his features, the slave appeared much nearer in age to he himself, perhaps five years older at most.

The realization that this fate could one day be his own shook Jorah to the core.

He was not allowed to dwell on that for long, though -- survival was the top priority now, for the stallion started snorting and moving around nervously, pulling on the reins.  The jackals were returning, Jorah thought, hurrying over to grab the reins just as the horse pulled back and yanked the walking stick out of the ground.

If the horse got away from him and bolted, he was a dead man himself.

"Easy, boy, easy!" Jorah said, catching hold of the bridle and stepping aside just as its front hooves lashed out towards him.  He held onto the bridle for dear life, nearly lifted off his feet as the horse reared, its eyes rolling and showing white.   "Easy... Easy now, old friend, you know me," he kept repeating soothingly, stroking its neck, and the horse settled long enough for Jorah to swing back up into the saddle.

Now he could hear the sound of jackals and other beasts in the distance; the fresh blood would bring them all from miles around.  Jorah nudged the horse with his heels, and his mount was more than happy to bolt away now, galloping down the road at top speed, away from the scavengers, continuing on their journey.

He kept his hand on the hilt of his sword as he rode, even more vigilant now for other predators of the night, trying -- and failing -- to forget the not-so-old man.

He had been alone in the world, in a place not of his choosing, his body worn down by years of hard life, far from home, abandoned and forgotten, left to die.

Was the slave so very different from himself?

Jorah yearned for home even more, feeling the press of time more acutely than ever, wanting the chance to make amends before life left him or his father and it was too late.

The road was broad and smooth, flattened by so many passing feet of the hoarde, and he was so preoccupied with thoughts of the old man that nearly missed the road that led to Qohor which cut across the path he rode.

He made the turn to the left that led towards the city, then reined the horse in, walking his mount for a while to let it cool down, deciding this was a good place to rest for a bit.  Qohor was nearly a day's ride ahead.

The chestnut was still unsettled, looking back and forth, ears moving this way and that, listening for any hint of danger.  Soon though, the stallion seemed satisfied that all was well, relaxing and lowering its head to graze on the shoots of grass at the side of the road.

Jorah remained in the saddle.  In the moonlight the ruined gates of the long-abandoned outpost at the crossroads reminded him of the rocky crags along the shores of Bear Island. 

When he closed his eyes he could hear the crash of the surf against the coastline and imagine he was home.  He could taste the salt in the air, hear the crunch of newly fallen snow beneath his boots, smell the pine trees, feel the sharp sting of the wind as it swept in over the Bay of Ice, and see the steel grey clouds hover close overhead like a comforting blanket.  Some -- Lynesse chief among them -- thought it bleak and inhospitable, but it to him it was all he had known in his youth, it was ever home.

He longed for the sea and to leave this hot, dry land.  He knew he should not let himself hope for it -- just thinking about Bear Island filled him with unendurable longing and sorrow -- but the promise of freedom after years of exile was so powerful he could taste it.

 _*Home!*_

He leaned forward to scratch the horse in its favorite spot behind the ears.  "If I went home, would you like to come with me, hmm?   I wonder if you'd like Westeros."  The chestnut raised its head, nickering, bobbing his head in seeming agreement, and Jorah smiled.  "Thank you, old friend.  Sometimes I feel as though you're all I have."  He looked around, at the limitless sky and unending grasslands.  Then he shook his head, continuing, "Ah, perhaps not.  You've lived all your life out here on the plains.  I doubt you'd fare well in the North.  And I'll wager you'd hate being put on a ship for the crossing.  Maybe it would be kinder to leave you here."

The horse nickered again, shaking his head.  Jorah chuckled, patting him on the neck affectionately.  "All right then, we'll see.  There's plenty of time to decide such things.  I fear it’s far too soon to entertain such thoughts.”

He let his mount graze for a while longer, then pulled his head up again, nudging him with his heels, and the horse walked forward, easing into a light canter again.

As they continued down the road, closer to the city and farther away from the khalasar, Jorah began to feel a heaviness in his chest and a tightness in his throat.  He was committing himself to this road and the inevitable consequences.  Doubts and questions that had been nagging at him for weeks -- which he had been able to ignore up until now -- came to the forefront, filling his head. 

There would be a price for his pardon -- nothing came for free.

It was Daenerys who would pay, perhaps dearly, for his own salvation.

He saw her beautiful face in his mind's eye, and he pulled back on the reins, slowing the horse to a walk.

 _*The Khaleesi have baby inside her.*_

Pregnant.  She carried a life within her now.

The frightened young girl he had met on her wedding day had quickly blossomed into a confident young woman, and now she would be a young mother.

Unless something -- or _someone_ \-- changed that.

He swallowed hard and stopped the horse.

His steed snorted, breathing hard, swishing its tail in annoyance, and Jorah paused for a moment, looking back over his shoulder, then spurred the horse forward again. 

He rode on, but barely ten minutes passed before he stopped again, turning the horse around and letting it take a few steps back the way they had come.  It pawed at the ground for a moment, then waited while Jorah sat there, staring into the night towards the encamped khalasar.

His calloused fingers curled around the hilt of his broadsword, pulling it out of the scabbard decorated with painted peacock feathers.  He laid it across the saddle in front of him, studying the way it glinted in the moonlight.  It was an excellent sword, good quality steel from the forges of Pentos.   But it was not Valyrian steel; it was not worthy of a name.  Not like Longclaw, the sword that every Lord of House Mormont had carried for five hundred years.  He had left the family heirloom behind where it belonged, on Bear Island with his father’s sister, when he had fled from Westeros.

He remembered how proud he had been the day his father had left to take the Black, entrusting Longclaw and the Mormont lands to his only son. 

When his life had crumbled around him, and he had done things that filled him with shame now to recall, to try to hold onto a woman who had never really cared for him, it had been agony to abandon his home and Longclaw and everything it represented.  He had given it all up to try to make Lynesse happy, hoping that they could start over somewhere more hospitable than the cold climes of Bear Island.   But just as it had been all along, whatever he did, it was never enough, and then the money had run out again, and then she had left him too, for a man who could give her the comforts he had never been able to afford, at least not for long.

He let the sword slide back into its sheath.

He wanted Longclaw back, he wanted his father's respect back -- he wanted to set foot in Westeros again without an executioner waiting for him.   His father would probably never forgive him, but at least some of the shame of having a fugitive son would be gone.

 _*Home!*_

Was any of that possible, he wondered?  Even if King Robert gave him a royal pardon in exchange for being the first to bring word of the impending birth of another Targaryen heir, would that ever erase the scandal of his crime and cowardly flight to escape Ned Stark's execution sword?

The only way to truly learn the answer was to see his father again face to face.

He nudged the chestnut with his heels, leading his mount back around to face towards Qohor once more.  The horse whinnied, shaking its head, but started walking ahead obediently.

 _*The Khaleesi have baby inside her.*_

The words would not leave his mind, gnawing at his soul.

Daenerys trusted him -- he had sworn an oath to her family -- and now he was about to betray her too.  Could that make up for betraying his own family?  Or would he be doubly damned?

Like most in the North he still followed the old gods, though when he had been a knight of the realm, he had given lip service to the Seven.  In truth, he had never been a religious man of either faith, but at times likes this, he wished there was a godswood he could visit and pray for guidance. 

The gods had answered the slave’s prayers; perchance they would answer his too.

What had seemed so certain hours before was now an impossible choice.  Betray Daenerys and be allowed to go home.  Be true to Daenerys and be exiled forever.

How could he decide such a thing?

Clearing his mind, thinking as logically as he could, he pushed all other thoughts aside, of the old man, of his feelings towards Daenerys and his dreams of home.

So what would happen if he stopped now?  What if he turned around and went back to the khalasar?  What would it change?

Daenerys was khaleesi, the wife of the khal, not some obscure girl.  If she was with child, it would not stay a secret for long.  Soon the whole khalasar would be celebrating it, and the traders and merchants would hear when they reached the markets at Vaes Dothrak.  He was not fool enough to think he was the only spy watching the Targaryens; no doubt there were many others.

If he did not go to Qohor, all that would change would be how quickly word got back to King's Landing, and who got credit for the information.

If he did not go to Qohor, they would find out about Daenerys' pregnancy anyway, and he would be exactly where he was now -- exiled, homeless, depending on a Dothraki khal who did not believe in money to keep food in his belly and shelter over his head. 

How long would it be before his counsel and advice were no longer needed?  He was not a young man anymore, how long before his age caught up with him, or injury or illness felled him?   He was alone here, with no kith or kin or sons of his own, with little beyond his wits and his cunning and his sword to keep him alive.

How long before _*he*_ was the old man left behind at the side of a road?

Daenerys relied on him a good deal, that was true, and he had tried very hard to be the person she turned to for help in learning to live with the Dothraki.  But soon would come a time when she did not need him anymore, because he could see the strength in her more and more everyday, and if she became a mother, how much notice would she give her old teacher?  

Even now, would Daenerys notice he had left the khalasar tonight?  If she did, would she care?

His knowledge of the ways and politics of the other ruling houses of Westeros made him valuable, it was true, but it was obvious that her brother Viserys had his own vision of how he would try to reconquer the Seven Kingdoms, and Jorah doubted that he himself would figure very prominently in them.  Especially since he had gone against Viserys that day in the reeds, forced to take sides between brother and sister.

Then again, the chances of Viserys leading any Dothraki army were fading by the day -- the man was a Targaryen in name only.  The Dothraki laughed at him now, and the man was even too much of a fool to realize that they openly mocked him.

But then there was his sister, Daenerys.   Ever his thoughts came back to her, like a moth to the flame.

 _*The Khaleesi have baby inside her.*_

A sweet babe, a blessing that he himself had never been granted.  Not with Lynesse, nor with his first wife who had not survived the last of three miscarriages.

There was an ache in his heart and his body when he thought of Daenerys, gods help him.  She was strong and beautiful, and in her he saw the blood of kings and queens, more of the dragon in her than her brother could ever aspire to.  He wanted her, thoughts of her filling his dreams on many a night.  He knew it was madness to indulge such thoughts -- to covet the wife of Khal Drogo was to be a fool and a dead man.

Nonetheless, he was beginning to feel things for her he thought he would never feel again after Lynesse had left him.  But just as he had learned through bitter experience that Lynesse had never truly been his, Daenerys Targaryen would never be his either, even if her husband Drogo were gone.  
   
She was something ethereal and otherworldly, with her pale skin and silver-white hair, daughter of the dragon with the strength of old Valyria in her eyes. 

Yet she was as mortal as he, and when he thought of what might follow in the wake of his report to Westeros that the Targaryen heir was with child, it sickened him.

King Robert Baratheon would not want to see a Targaryen at the head of a Dothraki army out to avenge his grandfather's murder -- the king's burning hatred of Rhaegar and all Targaryens had never cooled in all these years -- he would send assassins to see to it that it never came to be.  There would be many who would be happy to end the ancient bloodline once and for all.

Jorah felt he was but a poor pawn caught in the games played by the great houses.

When he had been Lord of House Mormont, he had believed that had afforded him some privilege.  He had been vain enough to imagine himself like the other high lords, that the law would bend to his will too.  But they set their own laws.

The arrogance and hypocrisy galled him.  The Targaryen royal family had been butchered seventeen years ago in the uprising against Daenerys’ father, the mad King Aerys -- men, women and children alike, save for Viserys and Daenerys who had been spirited away before they too could be put to the sword.  Now they would murder a mother-to-be and hide their crimes behind assassins, but yet he himself remained exiled for selling poachers to a slaver, a comparatively trifling crime compared to all that.

"Baratheon, Lannister, Stark."  The names tasted like ashes on his tongue, and he spat into the dirt.  "Damn them.  Damn them all and their schemes and politics and plots."

He could not fight them anymore than he could fight the currents in the ocean -- all he could do was try to stay alive and keep his head above water.

"The storm will reach her no matter what.  Whatever choice I make... in the end, I lose myself."  Anger flared inside him at the injustice of it, and he growled, “I’m fucked.”

The horse turned its head and looked at him.

"I‘m no better off than some street whore.  If I give them the information and betray her, I'm fucked.  If I keep my honor, I lose my only chance to go home, and I'm fucked."

Curses in every language he could think of poured out of him.  Beneath the field of moon and stars, alone in the Dothraki sea, he felt very small and insignificant, and he turned his eyes skyward.  "I don't care about gold or land or power -- I just want to go home.  That's all I've ever wanted.  Is that too much to ask?   Haven't I paid enough already?  Why ask me to do _this_ as well?  They destroyed her family; why must the child die too?”

The gods did not answer.

The anger drained out of him, replaced by resignation.  One might as well curse the stars for turning in the heavens as curse the world for being what it was -- brutal and cruel and unjust.

"I can't let myself care -- they'll send assassins, and keep sending them until they've wiped out the Targaryens once and for all, and I won't be able to stop the tide.... I'm only one man." 

Yet his conscience continued to protest, albeit feebly.  Was this not how it all started before, with a succession of little sins that he rationalized away, inevitably leading to bigger sins and before he knew it he had been branded a slaver and a wanted criminal?

How many more 'little' sins could he commit before his soul was damned forever? 

How did it ever become so easy to be so weak of character?

What had happened to his honor?

There was a heaviness in his chest again, and he pulled on the reins, directing the horse back to the khalasar.

But the stallion resisted now, turning only part way before stopping, standing sideways in the middle of the road, snorting and quickly turning his head back to nip at Jorah's leg. 

"If you're saying I should make up my mind about where we're going, I agree."

He sighed heavily, looking back across the miles to where she slept, beside the khal, carrying the spark of new life -- and a great threat.  He feared for her, wanted to keep her safe.

 _*The Khaleesi have baby inside her.*_

The words still echoed in his head, but only faintly now, and in his mind the sound of the surf pounding against the shoreline of Bear Island drowned it out. 

 _*Home!*_ his heart sang, calling more powerfully.

He had not realized how important the bonds of family and honor were to him until he had lost them.  And he had thrown it all away over a woman.  A woman who did not love him, no matter how hard he had tried to please her.

Maybe if he stopped stop thinking with his cock he would be much better off.

Daenerys did not love him either, and never would, and it was madness to ever have hope that it would be otherwise.

He thought of the old man's body at the side of the road, by now torn to pieces and filling the bellies of jackals and carrion birds, and it steeled his resolve to continue the path he had set out on this night.

He would not die out here in the wastelands of Essos, alone and forgotten, not if he had the means to prevent it.

It was decided.  He could not -- would not -- turn back now.

Time was his enemy.

He reined the horse towards Qohor.  But the chestnut refused to move.  He sighed, “We _are_ going to Qohor, I promise.  We’ll ride through the night and be at that little village by morning, and we’ll both have a rest and food and water.  And then, gods willing, we’ll be in the city by the next day.” 

He tugged on the reins again, clicking his tongue in encouragement, and the stallion finally turned, walking forward.

Once in Qohor, he would find the merchant who would send the message by raven to Magister Illyrio.  Then he would find a brothel to quench the thirst in his body and find forgetfulness in the arms of a pretty wench.  And somewhere along the way he would seek out some savory morsels that would be easy on the tender stomach of mother-to-be.

With his business done, he would return to the khalasar and try to protect Daenerys from the storm he had unleashed upon her.

But if she ever discovered how he had betrayed her this day…

May the gods have mercy on him.

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> (The end, for now. I have a follow-up fic in the works.)


End file.
